


Right in the Palm of Your Hand

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, M/M, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:04:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Takao’s arm turns into a claw machine during the second basketball practice of the year.





	Right in the Palm of Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kornevable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kornevable/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY! <3
> 
> I know I promised to write this for you last summer and never did, but....better late than never?

Takao’s arm turns into a claw machine during the second basketball practice of the year. One of the second-year reserves bricks a shot, and instead of letting him go get it (or, heaven forbid, getting it himself like all the seniors expected the freshmen to do during Miyaji’s first year) Takao’s arm is, suddenly, not an arm made out of human flesh. There’s no sound or explosion or even a gradual morph; it just all of a sudden is and Miyaji very nearly drops the basketball he’s holding when Takao’s claw arm extends out of his body and picks up the ball, reeling it in like a fishing rod until, suddenly, it’s the same arm it was moments ago.

“Whoa!”

“Cool!”

Miyaji wants to smack the other freshmen across the head, and seriously considers doing it (so, apparently, does Midorima; presumptuous and not his job but Miyaji begrudgingly gives him points for that) but yelling at Takao and reinforcing that laziness is not cool is more pressing here.

“You can’t do that!”

“I won’t do it during a game,” says Takao.

“That's not the point,” says Miyaji. “You’re being lazy. Go pick up the damn ball, or let him do it because it was his mistake.”

“It saves time so we can get more shots off,” says Takao.

“It’s quantity that counts, not quality, Brat,” says Miyaji.

He’s beginning to feel the signs of an incoming headache, the pulsing of his temples that he’s already starting to associate with Takao. How many days has it been since the semester began? It hasn’t been enough.

“I thought your hawk thing was supposed to stop that from happening,” says Miyaji.

“That’s not how it—“

“Drop it,” says Ootsubo. “Takao, don’t show off. Miyaji…”

“Right, right,” says Miyaji. “Practice.”

He misses his next two shots, and no, it’s not because he’s distracted.

* * *

Takao keeps his word and does not transform his arm in a game. It’s not as if Miyaji is watching him, specifically (he barely has enough time to keep his eye on the play and the guy he’s supposed to be guarding and where the ball’s supposed to be, his mind focused on the strategy going forward). It would be even more ridiculous to suggest that he wants to look at Takao, or as if there’s something noteworthy to him about looking at Takao. Takao is just an annoying brat who is annoyingly good at basketball, and Miyaji can’t even really complain about that. Sure, coming off the bench might teach him patience, but giving someone who hasn’t played well enough to deserve it over him would send a worse message. And they need him on the court now; they’ve gotten better but so have all of their opponents. No victory is easy.

Miyaji doesn’t even see Takao transforming when he passes him in the hallway (though he’s not going out of his way to stop by the first-year classrooms; sometimes he just has to go find his brother because their lunch boxes got mixed up, or he needs a quick walk for some exercise or to clear his mind; that’s all). Takao’s arms are normal, and his eyes (fucking hawkeye; Miyaji’s pretty sure he knows how that works) always swivel around to lock on Miyaji’s. Miyaji’s not a fucking coward, though; he’s not going to look away first.

(No, this does not result in him smacking his face straight into a doorframe. That would be stupid.)

* * *

“Miyaji-san, do you want some ?”

Takao sticks out his sugar cone, ice cream already melting down the sides, running in streaks across Takao’s hand, visibly sticky (though Miyaji’s not really thinking about how it would feel to lick—that would be fucking gross and totally unsanitary, as would licking the same cone as Takao has).

“That’s gross,” says Miyaji.

Takao pouts, making his lips look even softer, and fuck. It’s just the heat. Miyaji’s been practicing too hard. He pointedly ignores Kimura’s snort.

“You know…germs,” says Miyaji.

His cheeks feel, all of a sudden, sunburnt; his throat is quite parched. Takao’s forearm turns into a spoon.

“What the fuck,” says Miyaji.

“You can use this.”

“I don’t know where your hand has been!” says Miyaji.

“What are you implying?” says Takao, grinning.

Miyaji sighs.

“I mean, if you don’t want any, I won’t force you,” says Takao. “But you look hot.”

That is the most malicious smile Miyaji’s seen him make, ever. What the fuck. He reaches over and licks the top of the cone; it’s totally worth it for strawberry ice cream—and then he looks up and almost chokes. Takao’s smile’s slipped; his eyes are wide, and Miyaji is very uncomfortable all over again.

* * *

“You are not allowed to turn your hand into a dildo.”

Takao hums. “Oh, that’s a good idea—”

“Shut up.”

* * *

For a second (or, rather, a very small, almost-impossible-to-measure, fraction of a second), Miyaji is almost impressed that Takao has managed to turn his finger into a house key. Not that it shows on his face, at all, for any amount of time. It’s just a key, and it would be more impressive (that is, not at all) if Takao could find the actual key at the bottom of his disgustingly messy bag. He makes a mental note to get Midorima to yell at him for being a pig some more (never mind that Midorima always claims that he does not yell).

The key clicks in the lock and Takao turns his wrist carefully—he really hadn’t thought this through, and quite honestly it serves him right.

“Don't screw up your season.”

“Is that concern?”

“We’re on the same team,” says Miyaji.

Takao pushes open the door, pulls his finger out, and then it’s his finger again. He looks up, expectantly, at Miyaji. Fuck, that’s cute (and Miyaji’s pretty sure he’s failed at the whole not letting Takao know part).

“Did you learn to do this because you’re lazy or are you lazy because you can do shit like this whenever you want?”

Takao ignores him, but Miyaji isn’t expecting an answer. 

 


End file.
